Thanksgiving Misgivings
by MekkaBabble
Summary: Join Sweden as he goes turkey berserky with America during his Thanksgiving Day feast.


_A/N: Generic warning about off color jokes of a political and religious variety. None of which are designed to offend. As always, if you want to discuss anything or just flat out tell me off, just PM me. Otherwise…_

* * *

Norway and Denmark were watching a movie starring a rapping dog and horribly repetitive animation when Sweden barreled through the door. His sense of urgency left the other Scandinavians discomfited and disturbed. Sweden didn't care. Normally, he compressed all his excitement into those precious few weeks before Eurovision then let loose right at the zero hour. Or he saved it for that rare, uninterrupted tryst with Åland. But this time, armed with such important information, Sweden didn't… _couldn't_ hold back.

"Guys! Did you _see _this?" Sweden jumped in front of the screen to ensure he had his friends' full attention and thrust America's invitation aloft. He had forgone his standard red, white, and blue palette for something of a more brown, yellow, and red variety. And glitter. And corn. And turkeys in black top hats. Norway and Denmark stared at him with dead, dead eyes so Sweden carried on. "America is throwing a dinner party!"

"Yeah, he sends one of those every year about this time. Now shut up! The Legend of Titanic is one of the best movies I've seen. Don't interrupt it!" Denmark made attempts to snake his gaze around Sweden, but the other refused to budge.

"Then, Denmark, how come I've never seen it before? Hm?" Sweden added extra venom to the retort.

"I've seen Finland going through your mail before you get it. My guess is he likes to steal the things that might bring you joy." Norway said. "Now either sit down or leave!"

Sweden unplugged the TV and ignored the lion growls from the other two. "You two are completely missing the point! America, _The_ United States of America is having a _dinner party_ and he's calling it 'Thanksgiving'. I bet he's got forks never seen on this side of the Atlantic. And think of the exotic napkin folds! And a giant whole turkey! Big enough to feed a small village!" He began to hyperventilate and shake. "Oh yes! It's like… this is more exciting than the day I learned how to pack an entire bedroom into a pizza box! We have to go!"

"We?" Denmark repeated dubiously.

"No thanks." Norway agreed. "Remember last time when I ate at America's and he fed me that horrid peanut butter?"

Sweden stood aghast for a brief second, but recovered with speed. "Fine!" He quipped. "I'll go by myself. What will you do to entertain yourselves without me, anyways? Watch your crappy movie?"

Sweden saw Norway and Denmark trade smiles, and then he hotfooted off. Once he made it a considerable distance from his excuses for friends, Sweden pondered the invitation in his right hand and with his left, pulled out a GPS and punched in the address exactly as it appeared on the invitation.

"1273 down on Rockafeller St… retrieve route." Sweden said it aloud with gusto for no reason than the sheer joy of it.

* * *

It was the type of house that judged you for not being important enough to stand on its wraparound porch. Sweden didn't quite understand how America, all while whining about a flagging economy, managed to pay the mortgage on a plantation style home.

'_Still living off England's trust fund probably.' _Sweden thought. He knocked three times exactly and waited with the civilized poise that one would expect from a country of his caliber … and waited… and waited… and maintained the ruse until something cold and metallic and blunt jammed itself between his shoulder blades.

And damn near reeled over the railing into a rose bush in shock. He found his footing (barely) and whirled with bared teeth on the interloper, fully prepared to dish out some Viking-Fu and found Russia with a vodka bottle pointed right at him, near enough to give him an Eskimo kiss.

"Russia? What are you doing at this party? You don't like America, I thought." Sweden sputtered.

"I don't." Russia said, nonchalant as he utilized his sleeve to polish the unopened vodka to transparent perfection. "But life's a paradox. For example, what's the best way to take over the world without being a bad guy? If I knew, I'd do it, but in the meantime America gives great lessons. I'd have to be a Chukchi to miss Thanksgiving!"

"What the hell's a Chukchi?" Sweden asked. It was true that normally Sweden didn't associate with Russia. At all. If it could possibly be avoided. Usually Finland ran to the front line of fire, regardless. Sweden cursed the fates that Canada was nowhere to be found thus far.

"Besides," Russia continued, "The author has a serious thing for me. So I get to make really obscure references to my culture and geography that you have to look up to understand. I've also got a great trick to play on America this year."

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Sweden said.

"But aren't I the most loveable asshole you know?" Russia flashed him a Cheshire grin.

Typical Russia.

"So who comes?" Sweden said.

"Usually, Canada, Mexico, me, and the occasional guy like you who hasn't learned better yet." Russia said.

"What about his sister? Or the rest of his family?"

The other country guffawed. "Actually no. Last year, she showed off Thanksgiving to Japan. They made turkey sushi and served it raw. After that vomit fest, America asked her to spend it over at Japan's house. England hasn't showed up since America's Tea Party. Either of them. Hilarious, huh?" Russia said as he rang the bell.

Then running footsteps were heard from inside and Canada threw open the door all the while balancing a top hat sporting a gaudy gold buckle in the front. "Hey Sweden! Glad you to see you. Russia…"

"Come on." Russia taunted. "Insult me. I know you wanna."

"You're still not a very nice person." Canada finished lamely. "You guys know the drill- just smile, keep your tone happy, and no sudden moves. You'll have a great ti-"

"Canadia! I mean, Canada, come back here." America shouted.

"But we have guests, eh." Canada yelled back.

It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before America came to greet them, adorned in what he assumed to be authentic Native American dress. That is to say a brown cardboard headband with a three chicken feathers painted to look like they dropped off an eagle's wing stapled into the back of it. The whole shebang embellished with orange, red, and yellow sequins. And a fringe vest made out of a paper bag. Such beautiful traditions America had.

"Howdy ho, party pilgrims! Ready to stuff your gullets?" America waved at Russia and Sweden.

"Hello America, thanks for inviting me to your dinner party." Sweden stiffly extended a hand for the other to shake. "How are you doing today?"

"Norway, if I was any better I'd have to walk backwards to keep from flying." America said.

Now Sweden branded himself as a practical fellow. And low key enough that he could do things like use the word 'jocularity' in a sentence without sounding pretentious. Though this wasn't one of those times to flaunt such intelligence by correcting America's mistake. The last thing he wanted to do was ground America's soaring mood, so he settled for laughing politely.

"Show Norway what you show all your visitors." Russia prompted to his host, a suspicious grin creeping across his face.

And America whirled on him with a start. "I'll remind you again that this is the only time of year I'll bother to tolerate you. And don't think I'm taking orders from you, because I'd never, ever do that." Then back to Sweden. "Come with me, Norway! I got something you just have to see!"

* * *

America steered him into a metallic chamber that rendered Sweden tiny and invisible both as a person and a country. Perched in the center sat a true technological miracle- a testament to America's prowess on the world playing field. Under the holy glow of incandescent overhead lamp rested an oval of graphite no larger than the lens on Sweden's glasses.

"Ain't she beautiful?" America glowed like a proud dad. "I want to put her in the Miss Universe pageant."

"She? It's a hunk of rock. Is it some type of weapon?" Sweden moved to inspect the thing, but America pulled him up short by looping an arm around his neck.

"That she is. Her name's Big Bessie. Five kilos of pure unranium-235 regulated by a graphite shell. She's the latest in my nuclear weapons technology. One of her could wipe out an area the size of Kentucky four times over. This is powerful stuff here, Norway. Security at its finest. Right here in front of us." America paused to wipe a nonexistent tear from his eye. How macho.

"Hmmmmmright." Sweden drawled, his tone laden with sarcasm. "And how many of these do you have pointed at Syria now?"

"Only two." America said.

Sweden pulled a face, but America remained oblivious.

"So what do you think, buddy? I show her to all my visitors as a courtesy."

"Well…" Sweden stalled for words by spreading a disarming smile clear across his face as per Canada's sage advice. "Your strides in technology are no doubt something for you to be proud of and admired by the rest of us. No wonder you're happy to show it off."

"Pride nuthin!" America blurted. "This is my display model Bessie. She's here to remind everyone coming through my doors that the second you cross me." He leaned in close. "I'll crush you like a caterpillar on a freeway. Now come on, Norway! We gotta move quickly if we want to see Santa in the Macy's parade. It's one of my favorite traditions."

"Seeing Santa over a month before he's due in?" Sweden asked.

"You know it. It's the signal for us to start ransacking the mall. Let's go."

* * *

When the made it back to the living room, Russia, Mexico, and Canada had each found space around the television. America kindly ignored each of them and took a seat front and center right on the carpet, mesmerized by float after float starring Spider Man, Pikachu, and special guest Mannheim Steamroller as they graced the screen all in anticipation of the jolly guy in red and his eight deer. Sweden half-wondered if it was Finland, on the sly.

"I just thought of something." Canada began practically. "All this hubbub about Christmas isn't very fair if you're Jewish or anything else for that matter. No wonder Israel didn't want to come back this year."

"I think that had more to do with your green bean and marshmallow casserole than America's kitschy parade." Russia added helpfully.

"Canada, he's right. It wasn't a kosher dish. It was very insensitive of you." Mexico said.

"That's possible." Sweden helped himself to an empty chair near Canada. "But you make a valid point, Canada. Christmas isn't the only holiday that happens around this time of year. This is one reason I'm very excited to see America holding his dinner party as a celebration of the harvest. Diwali just happened, Hanukkah's coming up, there's also-"

"Santa Clause!" America interrupted, stopping Sweden just short of an educational filibuster. "I've been so good since last year and didn't bomb anyone or anything." He crooned to the screen. He continued prattling until Santa bellowed a few ho-ho-ho's and spurred his plastic reindeer onward into the bowels of Manhattan. America turned to the others, not at all disappointed. "I know he couldn't hear me all the way in New York, so I'm gonna visit him in the mall tomorrow. Canada, you're coming with me."

"I am?"

"Of course you are! I'll bet he missed you and can't wait to give us presents again this year."

"But before Christmas, there's Thanksgiving." Mexico said practically. "And remember, that you promised all these good countries a taste of your famous Thanksgiving turkey? The turkey I doubt we'll have ready?"

"Why do you say?" Canada said.

"Well…" Mexico pointed a pert finger out the window at an obese white bird that warbled and gobbled as it made its rounds through the turf. "It's still pecking around in the yard."

"I can go spear it with a sharp stick and have it rendered in no time. Compared to driving a bear out of your bedroom with a fork, a turkey is child's play." Russia said.

"No!" America squalled with vehemence. "That's a special turkey! His name's Cobbler and he'll live out the rest of his comfy, cushy life at Mt. Vernon!"

"Judging by its weight and waddle, it only has a few weeks worth of life in it." Sweden said.

"That turkey will _live_." America rose and protected the back door better than any brick wall lest anyone, namely Russia, opted to go against his will and truss up his special bird.

"Then I'm using the main dish we discussed earlier!" Mexico said.

"What is it?" Sweden asked innocently.

"A gentleman doesn't ask and a lady doesn't tell." Mexico said.

"But _that_!" America squalled. "No one will want it! Not this time of year. Besides, my main superhero is Captain America, yours is Zorro. That invalidates your argument and I win! But I'll eat it because I love you."

Mexico massaged her temples. After dating the nation equivalent of the fluffy bulldozer that was America, she had probably developed a tolerance most of things idiotic and flat-out wrong. But her mistake was choosing not to slap America then and there, so he kept right on talking.

"But, honey buns, if you need more time to finish cooking your main dish, I guess me and the boys can go outside to play with that package of Frisbees you brought over."

"You mean the corn tortillas? Don't touch them or I will castrate you with a spoon." Mexico said.

A lover's squabble on a holiday. How very traditional.

To no one's surprise, America conceded and ushered the others out into the yard. The turkey paid them no mind. Sweden thought again how much better the bird would've looked as a table centerpiece. But he didn't have much time to process it because America, as usual, demanded center stage.

"Okay, Norway and Russia! Listen up. Ya'll are silly Europeans and to you, Thanksgiving is just a free meal. But let me tell you that it's a holiday with special meaning to me and Canada and we're gonna share the story of how it all happened. Go ahead Canada."

Canada entered stage right and removed his pilgrim hat as a show of respect. "We really don't have much evidence regarding the origins of Thanksgiving. It occurred farther north when the French settlers hunting for food coincided with the natives' harvest festival and evolved into a fairy tale surrounding an event, which may or may not have actually happened."

"No no. Not like that. Do it just like we practiced."

With a heavy sigh, Canada chased down the turkey, which admittedly wasn't that hard, tucked it under his arm, and motioned for Russia and Sweden to get comfy in the grass. Sweden, reluctant to get his khakis muddy, opted to make a seat from clean pine straw. Russia plopped down on the soil indiscriminately and twisted the cap off the vodka. A tinge of jealously bit Sweden and he wondered if he hadn't brought some beer too.

America began his play that should've been titled 'Give thanks to your fascist ancestors'.

"Here's a question to get ya'll thinking- if April showers bring May flowers, then what do May flowers bring?" America shrugged with a flourish.

"Pilgrims." Canada said.

"Right. And the pilgrims, when they landed on Plymouth Rock, ran into a guy like me." America gestured at his headgear. "Named Squanto. And they got along _great_!" He gave a look that meant to contradict him would mean a date with Big Bessie.

"We sure did." Canada added dully.

"Now, the first time Thanksgiving happened, the food was so bad the pilgrims thought it was to commemorate Pearl Harbor. They were eating Indian corn, acorns, and stuffing stale bread in a pheasant's butt. It wasn't like today at all. Dad was so jealous the Indians got such good company, he wanted them to turn around and swim home."

"But we said no." Canada said.

"Right! We told dad that we needed our own place. Then…" America dropped to the grass and sniffed, like a bloodhound, in the direction of the house. "We sent him a poisonous gourd. Now, enough of storytime! I smell pie being sliced."

"How do you smell that?" Canada asked, confused.

"It's a trick I learned over in 'nam! Now let's go back inside."

Sometime between then and now, Russia and his vodka vanished. Sweden assumed that perhaps his 'great trick' was nothing more complex than him showing up to dinner drunk. And one less country meant less potential for shenanigans in what should, naturally, be a stately and dignified affair. He followed America and Canada into the dining room and stood politely at the chair he could only guess was his. He noted with no small amount of judgment that these western barbarians had neglected to provide name cards.

And stately and dignified it was. If given the opportunity, he would've preferred executing napkin folds with Mexico, but she had done a stunning job all her own at first glance. The colors alternated like that of a flame from red to orange to yellow to white and back again, each one set up like a tiny Cardinal's hat. The China was fine. The glasses, crystal. The silverware arranged with the appetizer fork tilted _just so_. The table… dusted in leaves from the yard for some reason. Some still had tiny bugs crawling on them. And feathers. Feathers scattered everywhere.

But it was the centerpiece that both discomfited and fascinated him. A straw horn stuffed to its brim with all manner of gourd and squash. None of it meant to be eaten.

Some of the dishes set out before him followed suit. They didn't resemble the latticed pies and glazed whole turkeys like those oft associated with America's feast. Maybe all those pictures were photoshoppped. Most of the food explained itself- veggies that were steamed and potatoes that were mashed dominated most of the table landscape (in addition to a few slices of pizza- America's latest favorite vegetable). Then there was Mexico's contribution, which she toted in on a silver platter like some sacred relic from a Mayan temple in the Yucatan.

Sweden cringed at her matter conglomerate molded into the shape of a ripe, young piglet accented by a Rudolph grade nose made from a cherry tomato. Its legs splayed in four directions and the whole thing was, appropriately enough, surrounded by baked beans. He wasn't alone. Canada too utilized his hand as a blinder and took to admiring the floor.

"This," Mexico explained, "is my substitute for the turkey. The body's made from ground pork, the legs from sausage, the ribs are real ribs, its head is a pork chop, and the skin is bacon. Boys, I want to introduce you to my porkgasm!"

"Everything but the hooves." Sweden quipped.

"And they're warming up in the microwave." Mexico said.

"Don' t worry," Canada whispered to him and pointed out an unassuming ceramic plate. "I made some pumpkin cheesecake. We can eat that later."

America clapped sharply after Mexico set down the porkgasm. "All right everybody, it's dinnertime now. Tacos and touchdowns later tonight." He paused for a few beats, either following an internal clock or attempting to appear omniscient. "Sit!"

And they did. With the precision of soldiers.

America pointed to each member of the small group, and tallied the number on his fingers. Twice. "I see… Mexico… Canada… Norway… Russia's missing." He rose with a start and stomped from the table. "That bastard's probably snooping around my Pentagon, or planning my assassination. Is all the food on the table? I don't want him poisoning all ya'll." The superpower paused to peer thoughtfully out the window with his hands folded neatly behind his back. Very much like a James Bond grade supervillain.

"He's probably drinking in the yard because he's Russia." Sweden said, assuming the most probable solution was the correct one. Russia and vodka went together like pork and beans. Or turkey and Thanks- oh wait.

"Thanks Norway. You're a good man." America opened the window and jumped out. Luckily, they were on the first floor.

They waited patiently while America hunted down Russia in the yard and dragged him back my the scruff of his neck.

True to Sweden's deductive reasoning, Russia was drunk. Not overtly so. He still walked straight, but it was the lack of the ubiquitous vodka bottle at sealed it. The alcohol had been replaced with an unassuming quart of silky smooth eggnog.

"He was wandering around lost in a corn maze near the road." America said.

"Untruth!" The sauced country declared, presenting the eggnog for all to see. "I forgot to grab this from the back seat of my Lada."

"I didn't know it was a potluck." Sweden said.

"It's not." America warily sat down with folded arms.

Sweden felt his temper rise a few degrees. At worst, the eggnog was spiked. Russia, in theory, could've been telling the truth but given the nature of their initial conversation that day, he doubted that too. For a brief moment, he applauded Russia. Maybe some social lubricant would bring America down a few notches.

"I didn't do a thing to it. I swear over Lenin's crystal coffin." Russia smiled a grin too innocent to be alcohol induced.

"I'm sorry Russia, but I don't think I believe-" Canada said.

And Russia leaned in close with careful balance. "What's that you're saying Canada? Something about wanting to be stabbed to death with a butter knife if you don't shut up?"

"Don't threaten my brother!" America shouted as he pulled a gun from… somewhere. Instinctively, everyone ducked and covered under the table.

"Don't get blood on the table!" Mexico shrieked. "Don't make me call my brother to come up here and fight you. Or worse, I'll call invite North Korea over for dinner and tell him to bring his new handler!"

America lowered the gun all the while keeping a sharp eye on Russia, more concerned with keeping his girlfriend happy than indulging in first-degree murder. Because a happy girlfriend made for a happy home.

When everyone sat back down in an apprehensive peace, Russia uncapped his eggnog and poured drinks all around. Sweden took one whiff of his and noted nothing amiss. Not even the tangy scent of alcohol, but just in case he asked Mexico if there she'd kindly provide him with a separate beverage from the fridge. Canada did the same. America stood his ground and examined Russia's offering from top to bottom. It was yellow and thick. He hesitated to drink it even after Russia clinked their glasses together. The moment America wondered if he was facing death by eggnog a memory to treasure all its own.

"Would you feel better if we switched glasses?" Russia said disarmingly. He took a sloppy sip from his cup and passed it to America, who reluctantly did the same. Then he did it again. Then again. Then America declared it some of the best eggnog he had and chugged a full glass. And repeat.

With the reassurance that Russia didn't bring a sugary beverage with a side of murder, the tension dissolved. On principle, Sweden refused to touch his. Eggnog was a Christmas drink after all. It was still Thanksgiving.

Just in time, Mexico returned with three bottles of cola, the flavor was a holiday classic, she said. She took her seat at the head of the table, after jostling it away from America, and raised her soda. "Before we eat- a toast. Let's thank our host, the United States of America who has exquisite manly proportions and generosity unmatched."

America as described by his girlfriend. Said country rose to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek and slipped into baby talk as he spoke. "I love you too, my wittle pooky num nums."

"As I do you, tweet hot hotty buns."

"Sugar muffin."

"Honey bunches of oats."

"Foofykins."

"Uh… Cheers!" Sweden could only hope an interruption would throw the couple off its loop and remind them that there were other people in the room. He took a brief swing from his bottle, tasted something thick and briny with a hint of apple, and spit it right out in his meticulously folded napkin. Far too late for the information to be of any use, he flipped the bottle around to read the label.

Turkey and gravy soda.

In place of a real turkey.

"What's wrong Norway?" America asked with seemingly genuine concern and potential offense. "Don't you like our drinks?"

Canada placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and Sweden suppressed a number of painful shudders and nodded his head, hoping it could be interpreted positively. Just so he wouldn't have to lie.

"Okay, just making sure." America poured himself more eggnog. Russia watched. "Let's join hands and say a prayer before we eat. One that's exotic and cultural-"

Mexico's eyes shone as bright as her pearly smile as she began. "Gloria al Padre, al Hijo y el Espíritu Santo-"

"Jeeze, Mexico. I said exotic! Not gibberish! Here's one I heard from Uganda." America said "Hasa diga Eebowai."

Everyone save Sweden chorused an 'amen' and tucked into the food. Sweden dug at a portion of green beans, which were easily the most innocuous and least threatening dish and arranged them on his plate not too close to the edge, as to threaten spillage, but not to close to the center to invade the space meant for other sides. He didn't feel brave enough to sample the porkgasm, but did try some potatoes. It was disconcertingly silent, and the others seemed to have no qualms about gorging themselves on anything and everything around. A proper dinner party required witty rapport and conversation.

"So America, I heard you just had a presidential election. Congratulations on that being done for another four years." Sweden said.

"Whatever!" America hooked his thumbs together to form a dubya with his hands. "Somehow Obama won again. I think the wrong people are voting. For the 2016 election, we're going to be having body cavity searches before people get to the polls. That should deter some of the riff-raff."

"Oh shut up!" Russia growled. "You voted for him! You _wanted_ Mr. Barrack and Roll in power for another four years."

"Barack Obama sounds like he could be a character in 'Star Wars'. That's the only reason I voted for him." America pouted. America downed a helping of bacon and sausage with another wash of eggnog.

"I'd support you no matter what choice you made, America." Canada said. "Australia too. You're family, after all."

"Aw thanks Canada. You're my favorite hat. I'm glad you all hang out with me even though I make you feel inferior with all my awesomeness…ess..ess."

"Right." Sweden said soon as he swallowed some beans. "Because of being around you, I feel so bad about myself that the only way to bring my self-esteem up to par will be to stand near the ugli fruit in the grocery store."

"What? I couldn't hear what you said over the sound of me being cool!" America opened his mouth wide to say more, or swallow another chunk of pig, but a horrible gurgling emanating from his stomach stopped him dead. "Uhm…" He whimpered.

"Too much eggnog?" Russia said knowingly. "I knew you couldn't resist a bottle of sugar and fat. I knew it would be a simple but good trick."

"Serves you right for eating and drinking too fast. You need to slow down." Mexico agreed.

America shrugged and drank some more. "No way! It's Thanksgiving and gluttony is my patriotic duty! I must persevere!"

That was about as deep and meaningful as the conversation got. Sweden bided his time over the vegetables until it came to eat Canada's very normal looking pie. Russia didn't eat much, but he did toss an arm around Sweden. Given his other options, the other country didn't blame him. He was only glad Åland wasn't around to witness it. Might be mildly detrimental to their relationship.

"Know what I really, really love?" Russia slurred.

"Don't say me." Sweden said.

"Yuck! No! Finland."

"I half suspected."

"Not like that, you strange gay man. He's so much fun to watch through my telescope." Russia leaned in close. No wonder Finland slept cuddling a knife. "My favorite part of the week is when I sit by my window, put on a bunch of Tchaikovsky mp3s, and watch him and your sister as they fool around with nothing but the lights on!"

And Sweden took the arm and elbowed Russia out of the chair. The other country fell to the floor with ease due to a compromised balance induced by drunkenness and curled up to nap. The snores shook the room.

"Good. He's asleep." America said around a monstrous bite of potatoes. "Let's eat dessert before he can have some."

"Save the best for last. I made it from scratch…" Canada said as he passed them each generous slices. And without ceremony, Sweden bit into it. And with great reluctance swallowed. Even quiet, sensible Canada saw it fit to provide a disgusting dish that shows up once per year. Sweden couldn't claim the title of culinary genius, but he still caught hints of pumpkin, sugar, and for some reason, microwave salsa. "I used sugar, pumpkin, and Velveeta cheese product as the base for what I hope is a delicious pumpkin cheesecake."

Unfortunately for Sweden, Canada was a friend. And friends were polite to each other especially at dinner parties. Though he was increasingly looking forward to that next moment, away from a party atmosphere, he could vent all his disappointment brought on by the poorly executed dinner party. "It's… thank you, Canada."

Mexico veered her fork away from the 'cheese'cake and back toward the porkgasm.

"You can take some home. We're hitting the end of the night anyways." Canada said.

Sweden didn't answer as Canada excused himself and loaded up a bag with a little bit of everything, including a fresh bottle of the Turkey and Gravy soda.

"Canada's packing the leftovers? We're done with dinner then?" America said.

"Something like it, anyways." Mexico said, giving Russia's limp body a nudge with her foot."

"Great! It's now officially Christmas season!" America said with great gusto. "This year, we're gonna raise awareness of our Lord and Savior's birth by going to India's place and hanging ornaments from each of Shiva's arms!"

Sweden rose from the table with practiced grace. Judging from America's earlier comment, his knockoff of football seemed to be the course for the remainder of the night, followed by a trip to the mall circa midnight. He made a special point to _thank_ his host for _giving _him the chance to educate himself with a brand new holiday that he had no hope of understanding. He chirped some goodbyes to Canada and Mexico, ignored Russia entirely. Briefly, he considered reminding America that he was Sweden, not Norway, but assumed that the superpower probably didn't have the mental capacity to handle so much new information.

And he grabbed his bag as a show of appreciation and stomped his way home, swatting a wave as he left.

* * *

Sweden extricated his keys from his pocket while struggling to keep his potpourri of leftovers from toppling onto his front steps. When he finally unlocked his door and finagled it open, he stepped in on a curious sight- Denmark sitting primly atop a donut pillow reading a newspaper. A Swedish newspaper. Denmark couldn't read Swedish.

"Hello Sweden." Denmark stated with stiff nonchalance.

A million scenarios flew through Sweden's mind. 'Don't ask him questions.' Sweden told himself. 'The second you ask him a question, you'll become involved.' But his temper, fueled by such a mockery of a dinner party, ruled before logic shut him back up.

"Oh America's God! What are you doing in my house!" He screamed with more vehemence than he initially intended.

The smaller Scandinavian wrapped the newspaper around his head like a scarf with a horrified yelp and fixed a puppy stare right on Sweden. He wasn't crying yet, but tears would be along sooner rather than later. "I promise I'm just reading the paper." He whined. "Don't yell at me."

An anxious silence followed during which both of them relaxed some. Sweden settled for glaring at Denmark who settled for ignoring Sweden and pretending to read the paper. After some time, Denmark thrust his nose skyward and took an experimental sniff. "What's in your bag? It smells like fried placenta."

With a conspicuous huff, Sweden moved into the kitchen and began the arduous process of unpacking.

"Did you have fun at America's thing?" Denmark persisted.

Sweden ignored. He extracted the Turkey Gravy soda. The glass probably crushed the rest of the food. He could only hope. Then he'd have an excuse to throw it out sans a guilty conscience.

"Was his sister topless?"

Sweden ignored. Then Mexico's porkgasm. A fully intact ball of it. No such luck there.

"Can he make-"

"Enough!" Sweden bellowed. Denmark sniveled and shriveled into a ball best he could without having to change position and hid back behind the paper. Sweden caught a few more whimpers on Denmark's exhales, but the other's discomfort not only left him unfazed, but sadistically satisfied. "I spent the whole day tolerating America as he and his buddies got genocidal on my brain cells while they stuffed me with this lousy excuse for food I was forced to bring back! All I want to do is relax but you've even denied me that since you broke into my home while-"

"I didn't break in." Denmark interrupted. The change in tone threw Sweden completely off his cathartic tirade.

"What?"

"I didn't break into your house. You left your second story bathroom window unlocked." Denmark said.

Sweden said nothing, so Denmark gradually lowered the paper to give Sweden that puppy stare all over again. He entertained the notion of telling Denmark to take out a patent on it. Or something. "I needed a way in and your bathroom window was cracked so I scaled the drainpipe and-"

"Shut up." Sweden barked as he fixed an icy glare solidly on the other country. Denmark instantly closed his mouth and cringed. With a satisfied yet vaguely sadistic smile, Sweden paused for a few beats. Not long enough to accomplish any more unpacking, but just long enough for Denmark to resume a relaxed sitting position and gain enough confidence to turn his attention away from Sweden.

And that's when he struck hard and fast. Not in a sexual way. Sweden curled his fist around the bottle of Turkey Gravy soda and prepared to clobber his friend right on his skull. "Do not. I repeat. Do _not_. Ever come into my house again without my permission!"

Gingerly, Denmark reached a hand to protect his head as his tears flowed freely. "You don't… y-you don't even know what happened and you're being so meeeeeeeean!" He coughed out between sobs. As a result, Sweden felt a predictable surge of guilt for the outburst. "I'm in so much pain." Denmark carried on. "After you left Norway and I got really bored and- and I found out I didn't have any more condoms so we had to make do with dish soap and cling wrap and-"

"Okay!" Sweden held out a placating palm in a gesture of peace. "You can stop talking right there. Look… I'm sorry I yelled. It's been a long day. Just sit here and don't move."

"I won't go anywhere. I'm too sore to walk." Denmark said with a matter-of-fact tone.

"Good. Stay put. I'm going to go call Norway and tell him to come pick you up." Sweden said.

"He can't." Denmark said. "We took turns. He can't walk either."

Without warning, Sweden's mood swung on its terrible pendulum one final time and he smashed the soda bottle on the coffee table to create a jagged weapon that he jabbed right at Denmark's chest. Its contents splattered all over the kitchen countertops. The smell of sticky, carbonated meat osmosed through the room. The smaller nation sat bolt upright and tried to wiggle away without actually moving.

"I've heard enough." Sweden hissed, his voice dripping with menace. "If you're going to stay here. Then you're going to be resting here in pieces."

"I thought you might be angry so I dragged over a case of Julebryg. I couldn't get it inside, so I left it at the base of your drainpipe." Denmark took the cuff of Sweden's shirt between his index finger and thumb and very slowly lowered his arm.

"Your holiday beer?" Sweden said.

"You know it. It's been outside for a while, so it should be pretty frosty." Denmark added hastily.

And Sweden's foul mood instantly dissipated as a silly smile spread across his face.

_12 beers later…_

"… and it's called Velveeta cheese product!" Sweden slurred. "There's a serious problem when the food name becomes an adjective! What the hell did I even eat? Do you want some half-thawed corn for your bruised ass, by the way?"

"My ass has been through much worse. Forget about Thanksgiving. It's not a real holiday, anyways. Merry Christmas and Happy New Beer!" Denmark uncapped a fresh bottle and chugged.

"Denmark, that's rude! No one wants to hear… nevermind. You're right. Crack me open another."

* * *

_A/N: I really wanted to give an ode to the holiday that always manages to get lost in the ether between Halloween and Christmas and it seemed just as good a time as any to remind you all that hey! I'm alive! _

_Real Life definitely had me screaming 'Hasa diga eebowai' more than I can comfortably admit, which is why I've posted a grand total of nothing lately. Hopefully this makes up for it. As always, reviews of any sort are cherished and will be printed out and placed as a centerpiece on my dining room table. Because who wants a turkey?_

_A happy whateveryoucelebrate to you all!_


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